The Murder Wall (39 page)

93

T
he sun peeked out from behind a cloud, reflecting on the windows of Brandon Towers. Brown looked up at the building, wondering if any one of the hundreds of offenders living
there had clocked him. For the third time in the past half-hour, his radio crackled into life.

Daniels was getting impatient. ‘Any luck with the target, Andy?’

Brown pushed a button on his radio. ‘Negative. Not a murmur, boss.’

‘OK, I’m going in. Armed response is standing by, so no heroics. If he shows, give me a shout. We can’t afford to lose him.’

T
he tenth-floor corridor was dimly lit and covered in graffiti.

Daniels listened at the door to number 36. Silence. She looked around . . . no one coming . . . and deftly picked the lock. The door creaked as she pushed it open. Stepping over junk mail on her
way in, she crept along the hallway, pulling on latex gloves, listening to the sound of music coming from the adjoining flat.

Porn covered the living-room walls. What little furniture there was in the room was frayed and worn. A computer on a desk had been left on, beside it a shot glass and an empty vodka bottle lying
on its side. In the opposite corner, a heavily soiled armchair made Daniels recoil at the thought of the gross acts that might have caused the staining.

At the back of the flat, the small kitchenette stank of rotting food. The bin was overflowing and dishes were piled high in a sink of greasy brown water. There was a half-eaten sandwich on the
bench. Daniels put pressure on the bread with her hand. It was fresh . . .

Forster hadn’t been gone long.

Daniels could hear her own heartbeat as she returned to the living room, wondering how long she had before he came back. She worked quickly, searching the drawers of the desk, finding nothing
but more porn, unpaid bills and a bit of dope. There weren’t many places to hide the magazine, if indeed he felt the need to hide it at all. She scanned every available surface, her eyes
finding the filthy armchair again and again.

It wasn’t a task she relished, but it had to be done.

Crouching down beside the chair, she was about to lift the cushion when she heard it. A voice – hardly audible – but a voice nevertheless.

A faint whisper, nothing more.

Daniels swung round, training saucer-like eyes on the door. Then she relaxed again, scolding herself for losing her bottle.

I
n the adjoining flat, Forster sat back in his armchair and smiled to himself.

She thinks I’m just in her imagination.

He pinched himself.

No . . . I’m definitely here.

He watched her carry on with her search, lifting the cushion gingerly.

Bingo!

T
aking hold of the filthy magazine with two fingers, Daniels headed back to the desk. She set it down flat, studying the front cover before turning it over and scrutinizing the
back. Using the tip of a pen, she lifted the first page, conscious of spoiling prints. On each of the first five pages, some faces had been removed very carefully and precisely. Her eyes shifted to
the left; lying on the desk was a pair of scissors he’d probably used to cut them out. As she read the associated articles, the realization dawned . . .

Oh my God!

Focusing on the holes where the dead ones used to be, she worked quickly, turning over several more pages, finding other faces ringed in thick red marker pen.

‘Their time will come, Katie.’

The whispering voice was the most chilling sound Daniels had ever heard. Resisting the temptation to run, she stared at the dancing image of the screen saver on the computer in front of her.
Just inches above the screen, she saw it – a tiny red light on the webcam. Feeling the colour drain from her face, she leaned towards the camera lens, looking straight at it, and almost puked
as she realized he was watching her remotely.

Sick bastard! He was good . . . he was very good.

Daniels felt a chill run down her spine as the music from the adjoining flat suddenly stopped. In a split second, she grabbed the mouse and launched the camera, bringing up a tiny screen –
just in time to see it shut down at the other end.

S
he reached the safety of the transit van in double-quick time. Brown immediately called for backup and made her a hot, sweet mug of tea. It tasted awful, but she drank it down
anyway. It hadn’t yet stopped her hands from shaking, but she thought she could feel it doing its job.

The sound of Gormley’s voice on the radio was comforting, even though he was giving her such a hard time. ‘You should’ve known better!’ He sounded out of breath.
‘Andy said he’d never seen you so spooked.’

Daniels gave Brown a look. ‘Did he, now?’

Brown turned crimson and looked at his feet.

‘I’m serious, Kate!’ Gormley yelled. There was some background noise on the radio; the muffled sound of someone arguing, perhaps? Daniels couldn’t make out who was
speaking or what the conversation was about. Gormley probably had his hand over the mouthpiece. Then she heard another sound. High heels on a solid-wood floor?

‘Kate, are you listening to me? That bastard might have killed you.’

‘Well, I’ve still got all my arms and legs, so none of that matters now, does it? I tell you, Hank, technology is brilliant for scum like him. As long as he leaves the webcam
switched on, he could be spying on us from Timbuktu or from the comfort of an armchair on the other side of a party wall.’

More muffled conversation.

‘I rest my case!’ Hank said.

Through blacked-out windows, Daniels could see several police vehicles arriving. Officers began piling from vans: some armed, some with sniffer dogs, all fired up with the hope of finding
Forster before he managed to slip away.

‘Hold on, Kate . . .’ Gormley was calm now. ‘There’s someone here wants a word in your shell-like.’

‘Just a sec, Hank,’ Daniels cut him off. ‘Andy, tell them to seize the computer and get it to Carmichael right away.’

Brown hesitated, in two minds whether or not he should leave her alone.

‘Go on! What are you waiting for?’

‘You sure you’re OK?’

Jo’s frantic voice came over the radio. ‘No she’s not OK, you idiot! You stay right where you are and use your mobile, you hear me? Andy?’

Brown made a face.

Daniels raised her eyes to the ceiling, not knowing who to speak to first. ‘Oh, for God’s sake! Andy, do as I say! Jo, butt out! This is strictly a police matter. Put Hank back
on!’

Jo ignored her. ‘Kate, listen to me. You can’t take risks with Forster.’

Daniels waited until Brown was clear of the van. ‘Jo, what’s your status?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Is this radio secure?’

Jo took a moment, presumably to check with Gormley. ‘Yes, go ahead.’

‘Then get used to it. It’s what I do. What do you care, anyhow?’

94

B
rown’s backside was numb. It was the third consecutive night he’d spent in the back of the transit van, keeping pointless observations on the front door of Brandon
Towers while a colleague did the same at the back. In that time, he’d witnessed a dozen or so criminal acts and public order offences: exchanges of money for drugs, two assaults, four
incidents of criminal damage and five separate acts of urinating in a public place. Just now he wished that he could do the same himself.

Checking his watch, comforted by the fact that his replacement was due, he began counting down the minutes ’til he could go home to a warm bed.

F
riday, 15th January arrived with a hard frost and brilliant winter sunshine, sweeping away the gloom of the past few days. A search of Brandon Towers had led to the conclusion
that Forster was clever and sophisticated. Having escaped from the tower block via an old maintenance shaft, he had now gone to ground.

In the murder incident room, DC Lisa Carmichael was on the phone making enquiries. Daniels suspected that the outcome was a foregone conclusion. She didn’t have to wait long to have her
suspicions confirmed.

‘OK thanks, you’ve been a great help.’ Carmichael put the telephone receiver back on its cradle and shook her head. ‘Forster’s not signed on with the
DSS.’

‘And the close protection team?’

‘Report a no-show with Jo.’

‘Figures . . .’ Daniels sighed. ‘He could be anywhere, doing
anything
– which is why we need to go the extra mile to find him. Hank said you’d managed to
locate copies of the magazine?’

Carmichael nodded.

‘Same issue?’

‘Complete set,’ the DC said proudly. She shivered. ‘This guy gives me the creeps, boss. We’ve nicknamed him
The Editor
for cutting out those articles. I reckon he
must’ve thumbed that magazine a thousand times.’

‘Call him what you like as long as you’re as good at locating people through unofficial channels as he is.’ Daniels put a hand on her young DC’s shoulder.
‘You’re doing brilliantly, Lisa. People are in grave danger and I need your expertise to get him off the streets. Think you’re up to it?’

Carmichael nodded enthusiastically. ‘I’ll give it my best shot.’

L
isa worked tirelessly, with surprisingly quick results. Within hours she’d found a reference to Alan Stephens in a local newspaper’s archive: the article reported
his appointment as fund-raising director for Kidney Research – a role he’d accepted just days before his death. Although his address hadn’t been printed in the publication,
Daniels didn’t think it would have taken a resourceful offender like Forster very long to find him.

Two phones rang simultaneously.

Carmichael and Daniels both picked up.

A few minutes later, Daniels ended her call. ‘OK, keep me posted.’

‘I’ll tell her.’ Carmichael rang off too.

‘Tell me what?’ Daniels said.

‘I had someone in technical support give Forster’s computer the once-over. He’s definitely been tracking his victims via the Internet. They already sent me a batch of deleted
files; information he dumped in his recycle bin thinking he’d got rid of it permanently. He’s not clever enough to realize we have ways of retrieving data from his hard drive. Jenny
Tait’s retirement was among the second batch of recovered files. She’d had a long career as a nurse, apparently, devoted her entire adult life to looking after others. It’s
sickening, when you think about it.’

‘Ironic, isn’t it?’ Daniels said. ‘Forster was practically illiterate when he went inside. The education department targeted him for specialist help, extolling the
virtues of his right to read and write. Later, they praised his new-found computer skills, held him up as some kind of success. If you ask me, they just made him more dangerous.’

‘That’s rehabilitation for you.’

Daniels pointed at the
Living Faith
magazine on Carmichael’s desk. ‘He’s been staring at the pages of that magazine for the past two decades planning this. Don’t
take this the wrong way, Lisa, but I want you to forget the ones we know are dead already. It’s too late to help them now. Try and trace the targets ringed in red. Forster’s finding his
victims somehow. Either he’s been hacking into government databases, or there’s information about this lot in the public domain. By the way, don’t waste your time looking for
Dorothy Smith – she’s just been reported missing.’

L
eaving Carmichael to her work, Daniels turned her attention to Forster’s parents. On the surface they seemed nice enough, and yet they’d abandoned their son when
he most needed them, a copy of
Living Faith
their only gift to him in over twenty years. No doubt it had been passed on with all good intentions, yet in a bizarre twist of fate, their gift
had kick-started an unhealthy obsession which had culminated in the deaths of innocent people. Years of frustration and resentment had gone into creating the monster that Forster had become –
and all because he’d been ignored, overlooked. This wasn’t some halfwit scrambling around in the dark; Forster was clever, imaginative and thorough – his plan well rehearsed and
meticulously constructed over a lengthy period of time.

Typing a command on the keyboard in front of her, Daniels brought up a list on screen. She updated the outstanding action to trace Dorothy Smith with just two words: REPORTED MISSING. The list
made chilling reading:

G
ormley wandered over and stood behind her. He was having trouble getting used to a pair of bifocals, a recent acquisition. He hadn’t been able to put off the evil day any
longer and had finally owned up to failing eyesight. Tipping his head back slightly, he peered at the screen to see what was making her look and sound so glum.

‘What’s up?’ he asked.

‘Pound to a penny the bastard’s got another one . . .’ Daniels pointed to the screen. ‘Dorothy Smith hasn’t been seen for days. My guess is she’s already
dead. Cumbria force is joining the hunt. Which is good – we need all the help we can get.’